


Good Morning Lestrade

by anderscones



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 10:33:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anderscones/pseuds/anderscones





	Good Morning Lestrade

The alarm next to my head blared in my ear. Groaning, my burning fingers grazed over the “off” button and I rubbed at the sleep in my eyes. I couldn’t actually tell what the time was (or remember what the alarm was set for), but I knew it was early and that it was _hot_ ; Annabelle wasn’t making anything in the kitchenette, not even noise, so she must have still been at home. Sighing, I sat up and listened to the boxsprings screech, reaching for my cane, which was cool in my hand. I hobbled over to the dresser that held my clothes and slowly got dressed, not wanting to be half naked when Annabelle arrived. The button down was cool on my feverish skin, and I wondered how I’d gotten so hot during the night (probably Annabelle getting cold and turning the heat up.) My jumper slid over my head, and I could feel the strands of hair that were out of place. I tried to smooth them down, but I had no idea if it worked. A knock came to the door, and I wobbled out of my room slowly to answer. Before I even opened it, I could tell straight away that it was not Annabelle. She usually knocked twice and came in, and whomever was standing in front of me stood there for a good thirty seconds.

            “Hello. Detective Inspector Lestrade,” the man spoke with experience and authority, but he was still gentle. I sighed internally. “You’re John Watson, yeah?” He asked, and I nodded. “And Annabelle Curray works for you?”

 

“She does,” I replied, wondering exactly what happened to bring a Detective Inspector to my door. “Is she alright?”

 

A sigh came from the man. “She was reported missing this morning by her boyfriend.” A pause. “He said that she was supposed to be home by ten last night, and she never showed up.”

 

“Yeah. she left here…,” I thought for a moment, trying to remember when Annabelle announced that she was leaving. “Half nine, I think. It’s only a five minute cab ride, unless she walked, and she still should have been home before or just about.” I pointed out and hesitated. “Wait, is this because I’m a suspect.”

 

The detective didn’t answer.

 

“Honestly?”

 

“We have to consider every-”

 

“Okay, fine. What do you need?” I asked impatiently, leaning on the doorframe and crossing my arms.

 

“It’d be best if you’d come with me to the station,” he explained. “Unless you’d like-”

 

“No, that’s fine.” I interrupted again. I needed to leave the suffocating flat with the sickening news of Annabelle. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t extremely concerned for her.

The detective asked me if I needed to grab anything before we left. I shook my head, stepped from the doorway (mindful of the key sitting in the frame), and almost instantly, I could feel him hover at my arm. It was annoying. Stepping away from the man and clearing my throat, I gripped my cane tighter. He had heavy footsteps that seemed to echo all the way down the hall, and for a detective, he wasn’t as silent as you’d think.

As we exited, cool air hit my face and I was reminded of Harry. I considered calling her to see if she wanted to do something for Christmas, but the thought tore itself from my head at the memory of the year before when she screamed about how “she wasn’t the one who left” into her mobile when Clara called due to being sore from the loneliness. It started out friendly enough, but two minutes in, someone said something wrong and it escalated enough to where Harry ordered wine and told them to not take the bottle back. She was at a record of four months sober.

I was ushered into a warm car and we drove for only a few minutes before the engine clicked off and I was shown through a building. An elevator ride took me to a floor where I was sat in an office that would have been used as an interrogation room. They left me there for a few minutes and I wondered if I should have rang my lawyer. Sighing, I laid my head on the cool, metal table in front of me and closed my eyes. It was so quiet in the that the silence was staticy.

I could feel something invading the space behind me, and I sat up, considering if it was a phantom feeling. I reached for my cane to stand, but it was gone; someone was playing a game. A hand slid across the top of the back of my chair, down the side of my arm, over the edge of the table, finally stopping on the opposite side.

"You’re the main suspect, I hope you realize." The voice was very quiet, and given that it was so deep, it was almost like a vibration.

"I did, actually." I answered back.

"But you didn’t do it." It was a statement and not at all a question. I shook my head and relaxed a little; the mysterious man was on my side.

The metal of my cane scraped with the metal of the table as it was slid across to me.

"You’re hardly mobile enough, and her boyfriend admitted that she used to take boxing lessons when she was a young girl, not to mention you’d have a bruise somewhere on your nose; her knuckles were cut against one, and you look very intact," he paused and hesitated. "Save for a few strands of your hair."

I reached for my head and pat at it again, wondering how he knew what her knuckles looked like. “I thought she was still missing?” he snorted and I leaned back in my seat, horrified. He implied that she was dead, but he dismissed it so casually, and the thought that the girl I became close with and learned the habits of was dead was deeply unsettling. I swallowed and tried to hold my composure. “So, you don’t think I did it?”

"I _know_ you didn’t do it." the man retorted almost immediately in an obstinate voice.

The sentence should have ruffled me by the amount of conviction the words held, but it didn’t. If anything, it cured the doubt I had for my own validation; if someone else was going to fight for the truth, that was great.

"And how do you _know_?" I asked quietly.

"I gave you the answer already." he replied, obviously offended and dumbfounded that I needed clarification.

"You sound so sure, but if you’re going to try to convince anyone, you’ll need actual proof." I bounced back to him.

"The yard has come to realize that it’s useless to ask me for proof in detail. They get lost so easily." he commented, and I could hear the amusement in his voice begin to escalate.

I stopped. “You’re not part of the Yard?”

He paused again and moved towards me, tapping his nail against the metal of the table as he came. The man halted close to my left side and explained. “I’m a freelance detective. The police employ me when they’re too stupid to figure cases out on their own. Sometimes they don’t even wait to run into trouble before calling on me,” I nodded in response and crossed my arms halfway, playing at my bottom lip with one hand. “I have my own clients as well when the ‘professionals’ refuse them.”

The door quickly burst open, and my personal space was vacated. The expected footfalls never stepped forward, and the detective inspector from earlier started talking. “Sherlock, a word?”

The carpet made a few soft swishes and the men gathered just outside of the door to talk. The ‘proper’ detective thought he must have been quiet, because he would have never dared to say what he did if he thought I was able to listen.

"Please don’t bother our suspects before we ask you to, especially the blind ones."


End file.
